by John Creasey
Why Zoeman had butted in, and why his obvious hostility to Wenlock, was a matter for conjecture – but not just then. He had butted in. Martin, a grin on his rugged face accepted Zoeman’s mocking: ‘You can come out, Storm,’ with alacrity.
Zoeman, a revolver in his hand as steady as a rock, contrived to send a silent but comparatively friendly message. Behind him several youthful, clean-cut looking men whom Storm would have backed the world over to be Englishmen, peered towards Wenlock and his four gangsters.
Pedro was stretched out on the floor and from a hole in his forehead the blood oozed slowly and horribly. He was dead. The machine-gun lay upturned on the parquet flooring.
Wenlock hunted was a very different man from Wenlock hunting, but Zoeman cut across his shaking words.
‘You never were much more than a bragging fool, Wenlock. Cut the cackle and get out. I’d kill you if I thought you were worth it, but you’re not! Don’t run away with the idea that you’ve got men in the grounds, because I’ve sent them all packing and I reckon those who aren’t dead with fright are in that smart little garage you run. Get out!’
‘But – ’ began Wenlock, his face working convulsively. Storm had an idea that the man was afraid of something apart from the icy voice of Hesketh Zoeman.
Zoeman almost lost control of himself.
‘Get out, damn you, get out! Or I’ll plug you like I plugged Pedro!’
The bodyguard worked swiftly, and within five minutes were disappearing along the drive, forcing Wenlock and his men before them.
Storm looked gratefully towards Zoeman.
‘Damn glad to see you,’ he said warmly.
Zoeman smiled mockingly.
‘I don’t doubt it. When you get a little older, Storm, you’ll know what to dabble with and what to leave alone. You’re in a much more serious business than you can tackle. And don’t run away with the idea that because I don’t like Wenlock I’m head over heels in love with you. I’m not. To put it bluntly, you’re making yourself a damned nuisance.’
‘I like that!’ breathed Storm indignantly. ‘Me making myself a damned nuisance! Listen, Zoeman. Young Granville invites me down here for a few days. I accept. I come. I get held up in the village, half-murdered here, on top of that the girl’s been stolen – and you say I’m making myself a damned nuisance. Well – ’
As he spoke he saw Zoeman’s eyes narrow at mention of the girl, which meant that Zoeman knew nothing of the abduction. The mystery grew deeper. But the man with the mocking grin turned away from the subject.
‘You men had better get a drink. And don’t look at my gun as though it might go off. It won’t – yet.’
Storm turned round, and as he turned caught sight of Granville’s face. He went suddenly cold. He could have sworn that a veiled flash of mutual understanding passed between the owner of Ledsholm Grange and Zoeman!
Affecting to notice nothing he poured the whisky with a liberal hand, and toasted the rescue party.
‘So,’ said Zoeman sarcastically, ‘it’s all just an accident, is it?’
Storm smiled gently. The twins would come...
The older man went on: ‘I’ve warned you once, Storm. Get out of this business and stay out. Don’t make reports to anyone, because if you do, you’ll be signing your own death warrant. Just fade away. You’re fishing with a fly for tunny, and it won’t work.’
‘No?’ queried Storm politely. ‘Well – I’m devilish grateful for today, Zoeman. But I’m afraid I’m too deep in the stunt now to get out. You see’ – he played with his cigarette case slowly – ‘the little affair of Letty Granville holds my attention.’
‘Supposing I undertake to release her?’
‘It would be supposing,’ grinned Storm. ‘Until I told you, you didn’t know that she had gone.’
‘I have a certain influence with Wenlock,’ said Zoeman grimly.
‘Maybe,’ acknowledged Storm. ‘But I wouldn’t be satisfied until I saw her. There’s a lot of things about Wenlock that I don’t like, but he’s clever.’
Zoeman rubbed his chin.
‘You’re quicker than I thought,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘All the same – you’ve got to drop out. Or be put out.’
Storm leaned forward.
‘All the gunmen in Chicago,’ he said earnestly, ‘wouldn’t make me drop out of this business now. Unless,’ he added, ‘one of them slugged me with lead.’
Zoeman’s lips tightened.
‘Up to now,’ he said, ‘I’ve been friendly. A few days ago I encountered one of your friends, a member of the famous “Z” Department. I hit him over the head,’ went on Zoeman simply. ‘I could have killed him as easily as I killed Pedro. As easily as I could have killed the two fools who belong to that Department and hang about Ledsholm with an idea that they’re not known. As easily’ – his voice went icily cold as he stared at Storm – ‘as I could kill you.’
‘I know, I know,’ broke in Storm. ‘Deep regrets and a gangster’s funeral. Still – keep on trying.’
He was gazing past Zoeman towards the disused moat and the crumbling wall which surrounded Ledsholm Grange. A hundred yards along the drive, just in front of the shining Black Rock opposite the big drawbridge was something which interested him deeply, although no hint of what he had seen showed itself in his expression. He went on mildly:
‘You see, Zoeman, I know that both you and Wenlock are pretty keen on getting possession of Ledsholm Grange. That gives me a certain advantage, for I know you’d hate to think that the police had any idea of this. So you’ll naturally avoid doing anything which might attract their attention. Wenlock went off his rocker for a minute or he wouldn’t have carried out the raid. So on the whole,’ he added genially, ‘it would be easier to clean Chicago of gunmen than clear me out of here. Kind of deadlock, isn’t it?’
Zoeman fingered his gun.
‘I had hoped,’ he said dangerously, ‘that you would see reason. All I want is Ledsholm Grange for a few weeks. But if I must put you out of action first – ’
His automatic pointed directly at Storm. The latter, wise to the man’s purpose, knew that he would be quite prepared to shoot; his ruthlessness shone from his piercing grey eyes.
But Storm was smiling easily. Zoeman’s gun appeared to matter to him as little as a water pistol.
‘I shouldn’t try putting me out of action,’ he said quietly. ‘Your life wouldn’t be worth much afterwards. I’d much rather give you the chance of leaving the neighbourhood.’
Zoeman stared at him uncertainly.
‘What the devil – ’
‘Shhh!’ exhorted Storm. ‘Twenty yards behind you are six of the bonniest boys in all England, and each has a gun and each is looking at you without enthusiasm – ’
Zoeman’s eyes were mere silts.
‘If you’re fooling me, Storm – ’
‘I’m not,’ said Storm, and the grimness of his voice carried conviction. ‘Put your gun away or you’ll catch a packet.’ He waited for a moment, grinning mockingly into Zoeman’s narrowed eyes before raising his voice, ‘What-ho, Timothy! Hold your horses, old warrior.’
The plaintive voice of an immaculately-dressed young man wafted gently into the hall from the foot of the steps. The party of six young men merged together – they had separated in view of the possibility of gunfire – and on each face was a cheery grin.
‘Well, old boy,’ drawled Timothy Arran. ‘Here we are, as merry as can be. You don’t really mean that we’ve missed the show?’
Storm grinned.
‘Only part of it. Walk right in and take a look,’
Zoeman viewed the six young men with amazement. They trooped into the hall, forming a wide circle round Zoeman and Storm as they broke into light-hearted banter.
‘Be quiet,’ broke in Storm, grinning. He had watched Zoeman carefully and felt himself warming towards the man as, after the first shock of surprise, his face creased into a smile. This is Zoeman. I don’t know his other name so I can’
t tell you what it is. Anyhow, but for him you’d have been in time for the funeral.’
‘Really,’ said Timothy Arran apologetically, ‘if we’d known we wouldn’t have – I mean, honestly, we’d no idea that – ’
‘In spite of which,’ said Storm, ‘Zoeman is not one of us. In fact he’s been making himself unpleasant.’
Timothy stared at him indignantly.
‘Now look here, Windy, we really can’t – I mean, first you tell us he is, and then you say he isn’t.’
‘And then,’ interrupted Toby jerkily, ‘you say he is again. What the blazes is the game? – ’
‘Remember that we came from London,’ broke in the aggrieved voice of Dodo Trale, the fifth young man, ‘especially for this stunt and at considerable – ’
‘Personal inconvenience,’ finished Martin Best, the last member of the sextette, ‘I might tell you, Windy, that I’ve a date with the second member of the third row at Daly’s chorus.’
Storm turned to Zoeman, and there was no smile in his eyes.
‘Now you’ve an idea,’ he went on quietly, ‘of the resources. There are others. But because of the way you potted Pedro I’m grateful.’
He saw the sudden eagerness in Zoeman’s eyes and smiled to himself. He knew that Zoeman had his gun and he knew that Zoeman had heard the engine of a car which was turning into the drive, manned by three of his own gunmen who had routed Wenlock.
But Storm realised that Zoeman could never be forced to talk. Zoeman free was more likely to yield results than Zoeman captured.
He did nothing as the older man darted backwards, bringing his gun into sight in a flash that rivalled lightning.
‘You’re asking for it, Storm. I’ve done all I could. I can’t help you again. Take my tip and call your men off.’
Zoeman stared round him. Not one of the six newcomers nor the trio which he had rescued moved an inch nor made the slightest effort to reach a gun. He felt that in Storm he had met a man whose methods and ability were beyond him, and for a moment the thought made him uneasy.
But whatever else, he was going to get away. The three men outside in the car were already showing their guns, and only Zoeman’s left hand raised high above his head stopped them from shooting. He knew better than to try conclusions at that moment with Storm and his men. Retreat was the only choice, and he retreated, confused by the utter immobility of the men in the hall.
Then Storm stepped forward.
‘You can put your gun away,’ he said affably. ‘As you’ve got so far I won’t stop you going further. But’ – there was a grimness about his mouth which brought a corresponding hardness to Zoeman’s lips – ‘next time we’ll take the gloves off, Zoeman. I’m in possession – meaning that Granville’s in possession with me to help him – and I’m going to keep it that way. So gloves off, next time. Suit you?’
Zoeman nodded slowly.
‘Perfectly,’ he said quietly, and to Storm’s satisfaction put his gun in his pocket.
Whatever else, Zoeman would fight clean.
Storm saw the other looking askance at the short, podgy little man who suddenly swung into the drive at the wheel of a decrepit-looking Morris two-seater. He grinned, raising his voice so that the men waiting in the Frazer Nash at the foot of the steps, Zoeman’s men, heard him.
‘He’s all right, sonnies. It’s our caretaker cove.’
Harries, returning from his trip into Ledsholm for viands, was driving dejectedly. The back of the car was full of parcels and packages, and Harries was not looking forward to the amount of cooking that would have to be done.
Storm grinned at the thought of the henchman’s dismay when he found another six young men added to the dinner list, but as he watched the slowly moving Morris, whose driver stared curiously at Zoeman and the Frazer Nash as it passed him, he went suddenly cold.
One moment Harries was driving carelessly but with complete control of the small car. The next he was lolling forward over the steering wheel, the Morris rearing up like a great crab on its back wheels.
But there had been something horrible in the expression on the caretaker’s face as he lolled forward, something which froze the blood in Storm’s veins.
Harries was dead! Even at that distance Storm saw the spreading red horror of a wound in the centre of his forehead!
Chapter 10
News of Letty Granville
‘It wasn’t Zoeman,’ said Storm with an icy calm. ‘I had him in full view all the time. It was someone from the right, and I’ve an idea that I saw them dodge down from the wall as I looked over.’ He laid a steadying hand on Granville’s arm. ‘Steady, young fellow. Probably a doctor will help.’
‘Doctor nothing!’ rasped Granville savagely. ‘He’s dead, you know it as well as I do!’
Storm shrugged his shoulders hopelessly, and was glad when Timothy Arran handed Granville a stiff peg of whisky. As the younger man gulped it down a vestige of colour returned to his pale cheeks.
He gave a short laugh.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would be as bad as this. But I brought you into it – ’
‘Oh no you didn’t,’ broke in Storm decisively. ‘I was already in.’
He swung round on Timothy Arran abruptly.
‘Tim – do you still know the daughter of the Assistant P.M.G.?’
Timothy nodded, although he could see no connection between the sudden, cold-blooded murder and the pretty brunette daughter of the Assistant Postmaster General.
‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Get through to her and ask her if she’ll pull the strings and find out who subscribes to Mayfair one-eight-double-ought-nine. Tell her it’s a joke – but get the name and address.’
Mystified but eager to help, Timothy put a toll call through to London and within ten minutes was chatting away as if he hadn’t a serious thought in the world. Miss Felicity du Corle had not the slightest idea but that the telephone inquiry was an afterthought. Viewing Timothy Arran with some favour she promised to do her best.
Meanwhile, the body of the unfortunate Harries had been carried into one of the upstairs rooms, and Granville was talking somewhere at the back of the house with Mrs Harries. It was a devilish business – and Storm knew that the only counter was action and quick action.
The telephone bell burred out within fifteen minutes and Timothy picked up the receiver. He scribbled down something as he murmured gaily into the mouthpiece, then hung up with every show of reluctance.
‘Got it?’ demanded Storm.
‘Love us, of course I have,’ drawled Timothy. ‘Here we are. Mr Sommers Lee-Knight, 19 Park Street, Mayfair, London.’
‘Good chap,’ approved Storm. ‘Now – which of you boys want a trip to town and who wants to stay here?’ He looked round. ‘Tim, you and Toby had better come with me – and you, Granville. Grimy, keep an eye on these lunatics, don’t let them wander far and watch like blazes for the Wenlock crowd. Zoeman’s too, for that matter. All clear?’
‘What’s the stunt?’ demanded Grimm.
‘Mayfair 18009,’ said Storm, ‘is the number which the bright boy in the telephone box tried to get. There’s a sound chance that the cove was too scared to tell Wenlock that he let it slip. They’re probably holding Letty there – ’
Less than ten minutes afterwards Storm, Granville and the twins were clambering into a roomy Bugatti roadster, Timothy Arran driving.
During the journey Storm managed to work out the affairs of the afternoon.
In the first place the attacking party against Ledsholm Grange had split in two – unless there had always been two. It was well on the boards that Zoeman, in the first interview, had deliberately made him, Storm, think that he was working the London operations for Redhead. Whether or no, Wenlock – if he was Redhead – and Zoeman were bitter antagonists, Storm had little hesitation in putting his money on Zoeman.
From that point he came to the inevitable problem. Why were Wenlock and Zoeman dead keen on getting possession of Ledsholm Gran
ge?
He didn’t know. But he licked his lips as he determined that he would know before the murderous business was over.
Another point which eased his mind was that Wenlock’s interest was in the Grange itself and not, as Storm had at first imagined, chiefly in Letty Granville.
Less satisfactory was the murder of Harries. Little though he had seen of the dour old servant he had every reason to believe that the trust which Granville had reposed in him was fully justified. Storm realised in spite of this that the murderers – Wenlock’s men without a shadow of doubt – had an idea that Harries might have been able to tell something which would have led to complications.
Ledsholm Grange held a secret. What was it?
From that unanswerable query he went to the disturbing problem of the dead Harries. There were ways of hiding a live man, but keeping a dead body without reporting it to the authorities was liable to lead to trouble. He ought to report.
But that would bring a small army of police as well as newspaper men to the Grange, and he was frankly afraid of going to the police. He knew enough now of the cold-blooded devilishness of the gangsters, enough to be sure that if he ‘squeaked’ it would be signing his own death warrant as well as those of the twins and their bodyguard, and the Granvilles. Police or no police, Redhead would get them.
Storm felt a chilling horror at the man’s overpowering lust for vengeance.
He looked forward eagerly to the call on Mr Sommer Lee-Knight. It was becoming increasingly urgent to trace Letty and he felt in his bones that the house of Mr Lee-Knight was likely to prove interesting.
Park Street turned out to be one of those extremely narrow thoroughfares set with gloomy stone houses towering five or six storeys high. At the identical moment that Timothy Arran swung his wheel round to turn into it, a gigantic Delage poked its nose towards the main road.
Timothy swerved, forcing the Bugatti on the pavement and bringing it to rest within an inch of a massive lamp standard.
